I will try to fix you
by Darcy Lovette
Summary: When sixteen year old John Watson ran away from his abusive father, he had hoped to find a fresh start in London. However, when a string of unfortunate events land him indebted to a gang, John was forced to sell his body to pay it off. There was no escape... that is, until a certain, mysterious gentlemen pulled up on his corner.
1. Chapter 1

Once upon a time, there was a little boy by the name of John Watson.  
John was a good little boy; he always ate up his vegetables, always finished his homework on time, always in bed by 9:30 sharp with teeth cleaned and hair combed. He never complained when his mother gave him chores and always remembered his pleases and thank yous.  
John Watson was a very, very well behaved little boy.  
So why did his daddy always punish him?  
Why did John's daddy hit him? Why did John's daddy send him to his room for days without food? Why did John's daddy touch him in very bad places after his mother went to bed? Why did he deserve it? He was a good boy…

John Watson didn't stay a little boy forever. He grew older and older, and his father's abuse became more frequent, more violent and very, very painful.  
So, when John reached his sixteenth birthday, and his father sent his friends home in a drunken stupor so he could send John to his room… only to join him later, he decided he wouldn't be a scared, helpless little boy anymore.  
And he ran away.

John remembered that night so perfectly. He could recall it anytime, like pressing play on a video in his mind. How he silently pulled open his drawers and took out his warmest clothes, how he folded them down and squashed them together in his school bag, how he emptied his secret stash of money (hidden so his father couldn't spend it on beer) into his pocket, crept down stairs in pitch black darkness, his father's snores masking the creek of his footsteps, filled the remainder of his bag with food, stepped out the door, ran and never looked back. He remembered the long, cold, daunting walk to the train-station, the sun just peaking out as he arrived. He remembered the quiver in his voice as he asked for a ticket to London, the way his hand shook and his pulse raced as he handed over the money and shoved the ticket into his jacket pocket. He remembered being so hungry as he waited for his train, but only having enough money in his pocket for a bag of cheese and onion crisps. They were delicious, but didn't last very long. He remembered the churning and butterflies buzzing around in his stomach as the train made its path through England, heading towards the city of John's dreams. He remembered whispering 'father cannot hurt me, father cannot hurt me' in time to the rhythm of the steel wheels on the rails. He remembered arriving, and the sheer, utter, soul crushing panic of realizing he had nowhere to go, no money and no hope, hundreds of miles away from home.  
John Watson was very much alone.

He had slept rough for the first year, only just staying alive throughout.  
Breaking into the abandoned flat was easy enough, living in it wasn't. it was damp, the windows were smashed, the whole place was crawling with insects and stank horrifically. John couldn't remember a time he felt healthy living in it.  
He survived well enough; he had gotten a job at a local shop, owned by a very nice Arabian couple. He earned only just enough to give himself two tiny meals four days a week, the rest he had to steal.

For a year John, a sixteen year old boy, lived this way.  
That is, until everything changed. Again.  
The flat was sold.  
John was caught stealing and was fired.  
John ended up in hospital after passing out from starvation and the cold, only just escaping before they knew who he was.

When John Watson was seventeen, he joined a gang as a drugs mule.  
Several months later, John was mugged as he made his way to a local nightclub. He had lost £300,000 worth of drugs and the gang wasn't happy. They gave him a choice; he sells his body and gives all the profit to the gang until the dept is paid, or he takes a good, clean bullet to the head.

And so he spend the next seven months standing in the freezing rain, wearing skin tight jeans and a three-sizes-too-small tank top, waiting with a large, hairy 'escort' for someone to come along and pay for the rights to have sex with him.  
But hey, it was better then a bullet… right?

Today was the last day John would spend as seventeen.  
The night was still; cold, yet mild and calm, the sky streaked with grey wisps of cloud. The chill in the air nipped at John's exposed arms, goose-bumps prickling up and down his skin. He'd been stood at his corner, by a dark, damp alleyway, for three hours now. His legs were starting to cramp up. His back gingery touched the brick wall behind him, serving only a little relief to the strain.  
"M'ember your fuckin' posture." Growled the man by his side, and John pulled away from the wall as if it was eclectic. The man seemed to be getting frustrated, his thick leather jacket mustn't be keeping all the cold out by now. 'Maybe we can go', thought John, 'maybe I won't have to do it tonight! I'll be further behind on my dept but… please, just tonight… please, God, just let me have tonight…'  
John hated this. He loathed the way the men grunted, the way their fingers were so thick and rough, the way they called him awful words and spat on him. Most of all, he hated the way it felt like his father. The way every touch, every sick groan and every bit of pain made him feel like a little boy again; a scared, hurt little boy, fighting back tears as his father forced him to do things he was too young to understand.  
Hadn't he escaped from all this? He ran to escape and now he was trapped again, being abused by countless men who all resemble his father.  
But just tonight, please… please, just tonight…

John lifted his head as a black car approached. John's heart dropped down by his stomach as it pulled over, the engine stopping dead. He couldn't just have one night…  
The window of the driver's seat opened a fraction.  
"Don' fuckin' move, kid, got it?" The man huffed, waddling in a threatening manner up to the driver's window, "You wan' the kid?" he asked, John heard a muttering, "right… whole night, huh? £300, up front." John watched with a growing emptiness as a pale hand slid out the window, clutching a handful of notes which he passed to the hairy man. The man came over to John, flipping through the notes, "This guy's got you all night. Give 'im a good time."  
John didn't speak as he walked towards the car as if approaching the gallows, his shoulders hunched, stomach threatening to heave and tears threatening to fall. He pulled open one of the back doors and slid inside, fastening his belt with shaking fingers.  
"So," Came a deep, smooth voice from the front, "you must be John Watson."  
John raised his head, blinking, "Wh… I… n-no, I-"  
"It wasn't a question. You are John Watson." Said the voice again. The car was dark; John couldn't see the man in front of him, "From the looks of you, you've been doing this for about half a year. You hate it, obviously, but you can't quit. It can't be for a living, no, you had a, what do you call them… escorts with you, taking all the money. You owe him, or more likely, you owe who he works for. You're young, I wouldn't say a day over eighteen, but from your accent you're not from here. You ran away. Family problems, perhaps. You ran away, you got involved with some very bad people… and now here you are. Trapped in a sick world of human trafficking, being passed around like a splif to horny old men."  
The car passed by a street light, illuminating the man for a second. Dark curls, high cheek bones, about thirty. John was struck by how young and youthful he was; normally he'd get middle aged men, balding and chubby.  
A hint of a smile was on the man's lips, "My name is Sherlock Holmes."  
John was absolutely struck dumb by the man's behaviour. The man, Sherlock, was so calm, so friendly… John found it so unsettling. "… I… erm…"  
"Don't worry, John… I'm not going to have sex with you tonight."  
John found himself panicking further, "… What?"  
Sherlock chuckled from the front, "Relax. I'm going to take very good care of you."


	2. Chapter 2

Thus began the longest and most painfully awkward car journey of John Watson's life.  
With the piercing eyes of the man in front watching him through the mirror, John's awareness of his posture, his frame, the positions of his hands and where he looked increased greatly, leaving him rather twitchy and embarrassed. The silence that seemed to surround them like water did not help, yet the thought of filling it with idle chat or a simple question seemed almost as likely as the car growing wings and taking flight.  
It was the man, Sherlock, who ended the silence, "... You don't have to be scared."  
"I'm not..." Mumbled John.  
Sherlock chuckled softly, "Of course you're not."  
John didn't retort. He wasn't scared, but he wasn't at ease either. This man claimed not to want to have sex with him, yet this didn't settle him. What did he want to do instead; who pays hard earned money on a whore and not take full advantage? John tried hard to forget about the paper he wrote on Jack The Ripper three years ago.  
He ran his tongue over his lips, though his mouth was so dry it did not do much, "... What are you going to do, exactly?"  
The man paused, his gaze never wavering from the road, "Help you."  
"I don't need help."  
"Everybody needs help."  
"Even you?"  
John saw the corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch upwards for a split second, "Sometimes..."  
"How are you supposed to help me?"  
"We shall discuss it later; I need to concentrate on the road. I am unfamiliar with this part of London." Sherlock said. John found this hard to believe, as the man was driving through the roads and around the turns as if he'd gone this way a million times, "I am taking you to my flat. I will not hurt you, and you in return will stay there for three whole days, then you will be free to go where you wish."  
John felt a warm wave of relief for a second, before a sharp sense of panic set in, "Three days? You only paid for one night!"  
"Your little club shall soon be receiving a large sum of money, with the sufficient amount required." Sherlock explained.  
"For three days?"  
John spotted the twitch again, "Forever. Consider yourself free of dept, John Watson."  
Everything was very still for a moment as this settled in. Free of dept... free... free...  
"... B-but I owed-"  
"I am aware of how much you were indebted to. I know many things about you, John."  
"... But how?" John was beginning to find the man's knowledge frustrating.  
"John, I am concentrating. It would be a shame for you to escape that gang only for you to die in a car crash minutes later."  
So John sat, his eyes lingering out the window as his mind whirred, trying to make sense of all this information.  
He was free.  
His debt had been paid.  
This man had paid it.  
He didn't want sex.  
He was going to live with him for three days.  
But why? Why, why, why?

The car pulled up by a collection of buildings around forty minutes later, but John felt like they'd been traveling for hours.  
John stood awkwardly by the car as Sherlock locked it, then fumbled in his pocket for another set of keys. Once they had been retrieved, he tugged John's arm in the direction of one of the buildings, numbered 221B, then up a set of stairs.  
John didn't know what he expected the mysterious man's flat to be like, but he certainly didn't expect it to seem to... normal. The walls were lined with books, the furniture was clean and trendy and the kitchen was like one that one would find on a home cooking show. John did notice a selection of strange artifacts; a skull on the mantlepiece, random artifacts and a large pink suitcase.  
Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, hanging up his long coat and scarf. That was the first time John got to see Sherlock Holmes in person. He was around 30, maybe 40, with pale skin stretched over high cheekbones, contrasting greatly with his mass of dark curls. He was tall and toned, the buttons straining on his purple shirt to conceal his body. He was thin, dark marks under his bright blue eyes. John couldn't help but notice how strikingly handsome he was.  
Sherlock's gaze locked into John's, and he realized he had been staring at him. He averted his eyes, pretending to be observing the kitchen.  
"... May I offer you a drink?" Sherlock's voice was softer, but still deep and velvety.  
Part of John told him to refuse, but his screaming thirst was louder, "Yes. Yes, please..."  
"Mrs Hudson!" Sherlock called, "we have a guest!"  
Moments later, footsteps were approaching, and a women walked in. She must have been sixty at least. Was she Sherlock's mother?  
"Ooh, another one, Sherlock? Honestly, dear, the things- oh!" She exclaimed upon the sight of John, hurrying over to him, "he's just a boy!"  
"Very well observed, Mrs Hudson. This is John." Commented Sherlock, sitting down on a brown, leather armchair.  
"Oh, dear, you poor boy." Mrs Hudson sighed, fussing over him, "Well, no need to worry. You're safe now, thank goodness. I'll fix you up a nice cuppa; always makes me feel better." She smiled, patting his cheek before scurrying off into the kitchen.  
John remained stood, "... Is... she your mother, or..?"  
Sherlock laughed, "Landlady. Do you think I'd still live with my mother? And why would I call her Mrs Hudson?"  
John felt his cheeks burn, "N-no, I-I just... wondered..."  
"It's quite alright, John. Easy mistake to make." He gave him a small smile. It softened his face, made his eyes seem brighter and his demeanor less frightening. It was only for a second, but John's mind felt very fuzzy and warm. He gestured to the couch, inviting John to sit down, which he did.  
They sat in silence for several minutes, the only sound being the loud clock on the mantlepiece. It was approaching midnight; John would be 18 in sixteen minutes.  
Eventually, in again scurried Mrs Hudson, this time holding two cups of tea and a plate of biscuits.  
She placed them down on the coffee table, "There we go. Now, if there's anything else you need, don't be afraid to ask." She smiled, before vanishing back out the door, closing it behind her.  
John leaned forward and swallowed several mouthfuls of tea, so thirsty he didn't care that it burned his mouth. He then had three biscuits at once, not realizing how completely starving he was.  
Sherlock observed him calmly, his face unreadable. Was he amused, disgusted, curious, John couldn't tell. But when he noticed the man looking a wave of embarrassment shot through him. He swallowed, looking down at his lap awkwardly. Sherlock just chuckled, "You must be starving. How much have you eaten today?"  
John thought hard, "Erm... like... nothing..."  
Sherlock gave a nod, before standing up and going into the kitchen. He returned minutes later with couple of sandwiches wrapped in clingfilm. He handed them to John, who swallowed the first in just a few bites.  
"Steady, John, you'll be sick."  
John nodded, starting the next one slower, with smaller bites. "... So... why are you being... so..."  
"Nice?" John nodded, "I'm not. You need food, I give you some. You need help, I give you some. You need somewhere to sleep, so I give you somewhere. That's not nice, that's just being human."  
The clock gave out twelve loud beeps.  
"Your room is down this hallway, on the left." he turned around to go, "Oh," he turned back, "... Happy birthday, John Watson." he smirked, before turning around and vanishing through a door, the door clicking shut behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

That night was the best night's sleep John Watson had ever had.

The pillows and quilt felt as soft as feathers; he pulled them tightly around him even though the room was boiling. He'd been sleeping in cheap hotel rooms (well, not sleeping exactly...), on damp couches or cold, stone floors for too long. He'd stripped off and climbed in, falling into a deep, dead sleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Unfortunately, John wasn't completely alone.

Sherlock Holmes invaded his dreams more then once that night.

First, John was trapped in a room with men; they were grabbing at him, touching him and hurting him. He couldn't run away... then Sherlock appeared, pulling him up and into a tight, close embrace. When he did, the room fell silent, like the men had all vanished into thin air.  
When John pulled away, he was back home in his childhood bedroom. Sherlock was gone.  
The footsteps... outside his bedroom... getting closer... closer.  
'No... no father, no... no, I'm sorry...' John whimpered, staggering back into a corner. But his back didn't hit the wall, there was a person in the way. Sherlock Holmes' arm wrapped around his waist, the other covering his eyes. The footsteps stopped.  
The hand was removed and the location had changed once again. This time, John didn't know where he was. There was total blackness, with no light and no escape.  
Sherlock was there... he embraced him, stroked his hair, kissed him...

John awoke.

His heart sank, his eyes had yet to open. It was all a dream... Sherlock... the debt being paid off... freedom. He was trapped, and would continue to be until he paid off the debt or died of some disgusting illness. He rolled over, feeling like his chest was being crushed, and opened his eyes to find a tall, dark haired and pale skinned man standing in his room, a cup of tea in one hand and a medical bottle in the other. His face was deadly serious, like a headmaster addressing an assembly. "Sleep well?" he asked in monotone.  
John blinked hard, "Uhh... I, erm... yeah, kind of..."  
Sherlock's face darkened slightly, "I see..." He walked to the bed and placed the tea down, the bottle beside it.  
"You were coughing a lot last night, must be an infection from standing out in the rain for so many nights." Sherlock explained, before tapping the bottle, "Take this every four hours, it'll help."  
John gave a nod, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Thanks..." he suddenly remembered something, "I-it's... it's my birthday..."  
Sherlock nodded, "Yes, it is. I'm allowing you to live with me... I've paid your dept and will continue to help you. Don't expect another present."  
John felt the words sting, "I... I wasn't..."  
"Good. Now get dressed, but be quick. I have plans for us today." Sherlock stood, turned on his heel and left the room and a very bewildered John Watson.

The plans, John later learned, were not what John was expecting.

First, John was whisked off to a small barbers. His hair was shoulder length, brownish-blonde and dirty. No questions were asked; John was sat down by a sink and had his hair washed viciously, chopped into and dried. John barely recognized himself after. He looked so... smart. It was short, now, with a touch of gel to style it.

Next John was brought to a tailor, who also asked no questions. John was measured and fitted for a smart pair of trousers, a crisp white shirt with a thin black tie and real leather shoes.

Finally, they were back in the flat. John sat himself down on the sofa and Sherlock presented him with another sandwich, prewrapped in clingfilm.  
"Can't stay, urgent case. Don't leave the flat." Sherlock told him as he tugged on his coat and scarf, rushing out the door before John could speak.

John ate the sandwich slowly, savoring the taste of fresh food. It was only ham, lettuce and tomato, but to John it was the most beautiful meal he had tasted in too long. After, John felt he should take advantage of his three days and decided to take a shower.

The bathroom wasn't spectacular, but it was clean and had full facilities. He started up the shower, the water fell with the force of a fireman's hose. He unbutton's the shirt and allowed it to fall from his shoulders. He turned around to hang it up, before coming face to face with a horrible sight.  
Himself, in the mirror.  
He was thin, just skin stretched over bones. His body was covered in burns, scars, bruises and cuts, so obvious against his pale skin. He couldn't stop staring at the pathetic creature before him, unable to look away.

'Such a pretty little thing...' voices whispered in his mind; voices of every man who had used him over the years, 'so pretty...'  
'You disgusting slut. You're a dirty, little whore, aren't you?'  
'Scream... scream for me, like the little whore you are!'  
'Don't tell your mother, Johnny... she'll be very mad at you...'  
'I paid for you, now stop talking and fucking suck it!'  
'You're gonna be vomiting my cum for weeks...'  
'Johnny, go to your room and wait for me...'  
'Look at you... pathetic... my cock is gonna destroy you...'  
'This is your fault, Johnny... your fault..."

John fell to his knees and heaved into the toilet, his fingernails scratching like mad against his arms, his chest and his face. As the contents of his stomach splattered into the bowl, he scratched himself harder and harder, gasping, panting but refusing to cry.

Eventually, the voices went away and the heaving stopped. John just sat there, head resting on the rim, his fingernails caked in blood.

Hours passed before the bathroom door clicked open, "John?" Came Sherlock's voice. Turns out he had been home for a while, "You've been in there a-"  
John was barely conscious when a pair of hands pulled him upright, slapping his face sharply, "John, stay with me, John!"  
John blinked hard, feeling the room beginning to spin, "Sh-Sher..."  
"Shh. Don't speak, okay?" Sherlock ordered. John obeyed.

He was pulled to his feet and navigated into the kitchen, gently assisted as he sat down on a chair. He looked down and saw that his arms were dripping with blood. He'd opened up the scars and cuts, blood was seeping out of them and coating his arms. He was suddenly aware of how much they hurt.  
Sherlock was holding a small bottle of disinfectant and a bag of cotton buds. "Just relax, John. Try not to move."  
John didn't move. He sat perfectly still as Sherlock pressed wet cotton buds to his skin. It stung but John barely noticed. All he could see was Sherlock, bent down before him. The way the buttons were straining, like they'd pop at any moment. John would make out his figure, his toned chest, his subtle abs... it was mesmerizing.  
Sherlock applied the stinging liquid to John's face, wiping at the cuts softly, tenderly. John dared himself to look up, to glance at Sherlock's eyes and then away again. But he couldn't look away. They were beautiful. A swirl of blue and green, piercing. Sherlock's hand came to a pause, before lowering itself slowly. He was returning the gaze. For the first time in John's life, he felt something he never imagined he would. Arousal. Lust. Longing.  
"... John..." Sherlock's voice was like a whisper.  
John didn't respond. Then, suddenly, in a moment fueled with adrenalin and lust, he leaned in, his lips pressing gently yet firmly against Sherlock's.  
The world stopped dead for a moment. There was nothing... nothing existed except him, Sherlock, and that moment. Hands slid up to Sherlock's shoulder's, feeling his toned skin and radiating heat through the shirt. He felt a pair of strong, warm hands placing themselves gently against his legs, squeezing them ever-so-gently.  
Then it was over. The lips against his own were ripped away, along with his breath and warmth. He was cold and empty.  
"No..." Sherlock stood, looking down at John with that emotionless expression he wore like armor, "No, John. I can't... we can't."  
John blinked, he tried to speak but his words stuck in his throat like dry cotton.  
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again, but didn't. He just sighed, kicked a chair out the way, and left the kitchen.  
John heard the front door slam shut.  
For the first time in many, many years, John Watson allowed himself to cry.


	4. Chapter 4

John laid in bed for hours, staring at the off-white ceiling, patiently awaiting the blessing of sleep. Which never came.  
He rolled over, sighing in frustration as yet another minute passed on the bedside clock, reading 4:32 am. His eyes were hot, itchy and very heavy, yet he couldn't keep them closed for more then a few minutes.  
Every time he closed them, Sherlock Holmes would be right there. The look on his face just before John kissed him, and the look after. That look of horror, shame, regret… John couldn't ignore it. It would be forever implanted in his memory until the day he died.  
'Please let that be today,' John thought, 'Please, just let me die in my sleep so I don't have to see him tomorrow, please, please, please…'  
John wasn't sure what time he fell asleep, but between his thoughts of Sherlock and silent begs for death he eventually slipped into a dreamless yet restless sleep.

John managed to fit in a few hours of sleep before a loud rapping on his door woke him up.

Despite his groggy and exhausted state of mind, he managed to lift his head to find Sherlock Holmes, wearing nothing but a pair of tight fitting, black sweatpants, leaning against the door frame. He was wearing his signature half smirk, "Good morning, John. Sleep well?" He asked, his voice deep and smooth as velvet.  
"… Y-yes… I suppose…"  
"Hmm…" Sherlock nodded slowly, his eyes never wavering from John's, "… I'm going to go take a shower…"  
John swallowed, "Erm… okay?"  
Sherlock paused, his eyes lingering for several long seconds, then turned around and left, closing the door behind him.

John couldn't fully explain what happened next, like trying to describe the choices you made in a dream.  
He kicked off his covers, swinging around his legs to heave himself from the bed. He had slept naked that night.  
He opened the door a few inches, waiting until the sound of the shower reached his bedroom. When it did, he slid out and took slow, silent footsteps to the room where Sherlock could be waiting.

He didn't knock.

Silently and carefully he edged open the door, the sounds of the pounding water growing louder with every inch, masking the creek of the door.  
He slid inside, turning to face the running shower. Sure enough, Sherlock was inside, his eyes closed as the hot, steamy water ran down his body. He was toner yet thinner then John could have imagined. His pleasantly large endowment handing low between his legs.  
Never had John Watson ever felt sexual arousal before, he had been convinced that it was something he could simply never experience himself. Especially not towards a man... a older man at that. Yet here he was.

He stepped inside the shower, alerting the older man from his daze. His eyes opened slowly, looking down at the teen. The corner of his mouth twitched upwards slightly, his eyes lingering as they slid down the other's body. He seemed impressed, but John could never tell.

There they stood, eyes locked unto each other as the hot water trailed down their body, like hundreds of tiny, transparent snakes. Sweat trickled down their foreheads from the steam. Slowly, the distance between them grew smaller, their eyes flickered closed, and soon enough their lips touched once again. Softly, sweetly and gently, barely an ounce pressure. John had never experienced something so pure, so innocent and... so perfect. Suddenly, his arousal melted away, pooling at his feet with the scorching water. His body was buzzing, his stomach and heart fluttering. He felt warm, peaceful and completely safe. His hands touched Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock's hands rested upon John's.  
They stood, kissing each other gently and touching each other softly, for what felt like hours. Neither increased the pressure or touched the other anywhere below the waist, neither wanted to ruin it. John felt a genuine smile forming on both their faces.

Eventually, the kiss broke. Sherlock took John's face in his hands, pressing their foreheads together, their breathing perfectly in time with the other.  
Sherlock's smile was gone, "... John... I... have morals... I took you in off the street to help you... to save you. I swore to myself I would never let anyone I help become more then just... a client. This... it's not ethical..."  
"... No..." Was all John could say; his heart was screaming in pain and protest.  
"John... tomorrow... you are going to leave. I have bought a flat for you, on the other end of London. You will go there; you will find a large sum of money which shall pay rent for at least three months. You will live there, you will go to the job I have organized for you, and you will live your life. You will find happiness. You must and will not ever see me again."  
"No... no, no, please, Sher-"  
"Shh. Just... don't, John. You're too... I'm not..." Sherlock's gaze dropped, John could swear he saw a single tear for a second, before it was absorbed into a trickle of sweat or water.

Sherlock placed a soft, lingering kiss onto John's damp forehead, before opening the shower door. He stepped out, wrapped a towel around his waist, and left without looking back.


	5. Chapter 5

John didn't see Sherlock Holmes for the remainder of that day. He had left the apartment before John had come out of the bathroom; where he went John didn't know, but he didn't come back all day. Sherlock, however, had been generous enough to leave him a plate of sandwiches on the coffee table before he left. It seems chivalry isn't quite dead, yet.

John went to get dressed, realizing as he did so that he owned absolutely no clothes. His previous attire of tight leather had been thrown away; he'd been wearing a white jumper and black slacks, donated by Mrs Hudson, for the past couple of days. It seems she had taken it upon herself to take it for washing, leaving John with nothing but a freshly pressed suit to wear.  
'I'm sure Sherlock wouldn't mind if I... just borrowed something of his.' John thought as the coldness of the apartment was beginning to nip at his arms.

And so off he hurried down the tiny hallway, easing open the bathroom door and slipping back inside. He glanced around and found the large, wicker clothes hamper in the corner. He looked inside; there was only the sweatpants Sherlock had worn just hours ago. It was better then nothing, so John pulled them out and slipped them on. They were long, but not too baggy, and very comfortable. There were no other clothes in sight, so John checked the rest of the apartment. Sure enough, slung over a chair in the dining room, was a thick, grey hoodie. Sherlock didn't seem like the type who'd wear them, but John wasn't complaining. He picked it up and pulled it over his head.

Suddenly, the intoxicating aroma of Sherlock Holmes washed over him, filling his mouth, his nose and all his senses. John's eyes closed, his legs weakened. He sat down on the sofa, pulling the material up to his face and inhaling, long and deeply. It was heavenly; like coffee, smoke and a cinnamon muskiness. John pulled up his legs, laying down on the dusty couch as he inhaled the other man's addictive sent. It was just like him... like he was right there, holding John in his long, toned arms, whispering promises of safety and protection.

John was so lost in this fantasy that he barely realized that he was crying. His breathing was thick and broken, tears crawling down his cheeks, dripping onto the hoodie.

And so John lay there, inhaling the aroma, crying hopelessly and shivering. He felt broken, worthless, pathetic, incomplete...

Eventually, mind fogged over with dreams of Sherlock, he slipped into a very, very deep sleep.

Soon enough, Sherlock Holmes returned home in the early hours of the morning, around 2 am. The case he'd been called to simply didn't interest him in the slightest; then again that might have been because his mind was elsewhere... back in 221B Baker Street.  
Sherlock was absolutely furious and ashamed with himself. When he first began to get involved in the gang business he set himself very strict rules that he could not break... no matter what the circumstances.  
1) He must never get too emotionally close with his 'clients'  
2) He must never make any sexual or romantic advanced towards his clients  
3) He must never see them again after the three days

So far he had broken two of his three rules; those rules were his law.

What was it about John Watson, a kid, a broken toy of a prostitute, which made him abandon his morals? What was it about the skinny, scarred, blonde boy which... made him feel the way he did? He shouldn't have inticed him into joining him in the shower... it was a stupid, selfish mistake. One Sherlock would pay for the rest of his life...

Sherlock entered the apartment silently, slipping off his coat and scarf and leaving them on the floor. He sighed softly, rubbing the space between his eyes. He might as well go to bed... there wasn't anything else to do. For some reason, his eyes were drawn over to the kitchen. Strange, he was sure he had left his hooded jacket there. He'd wear it to blend in with the right crowd... had Mrs Hudson taken it for washing? He shrugged it off.

Suddenly, in the corner of his eye, he noticed a small, grey shape on the sofa. Fast asleep, chest rising up and down gently, was John Watson, wearing the hoodie.

In spite of himself, he couldn't help but smile. He smiled, even though his chest was aching, his stomach twisting, his soul breaking.

He grabbed the quilt from John's room, gently draping it over his sleeping form. John smiled softly, snuggling down under the quilt, yet not stirring from his sleep.

Sherlock knelt down near the boy's head, touching his soft, fair hair gently. Sherlock couldn't deny how beautiful he looked; so at peace...

Sherlock leaned in slowly, to press a soft kiss against the boy's forehead... then stopped. He had to contain himself. Instead he just looked down at him, his heart aching to feel the soft presence of the other lips against his own. A single tear rolled down his cheek, dropping down onto the sofa, just missing John's head.

He knew he'd never be this close to him again... tomorrow he would leave him forever... he had to.

Slowly and painfully, Sherlock pulled himself away. He gave the sleeping John Watson one final, lingering glance, then retired to his room.


End file.
